


I'll Be Your Mirror

by White Queen Writes (fhartz91)



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Fluff, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-26
Updated: 2019-10-26
Packaged: 2021-01-04 01:00:46
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,068
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21188927
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fhartz91/pseuds/White%20Queen%20Writes
Summary: A holy message … a giant mirror … and one insecure angel. When Aziraphale can’t find anything to love about his body, Crowley steps in to lend a hand.





	I'll Be Your Mirror

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the inbox ask ‘Take off your shirt.’

“Angel!” Crowley strolls through his flat, double-checking new black diamond cuff links and smoothing down his velvet jacket – a relic from a time he’d thought forgotten, that he’d personally bid good riddance to. But Aziraphale mentioned it yesterday over tea, how he’d never gotten around to saying how handsome Crowley looked in it, what with all the Holy Water business going on at the time. So Crowley got out of bed before Aziraphale that morning and miracled the thing up from the dark recesses of his closet. With a skip in his step, he finds (to his utter disgust) that he can’t wait for his angel to see him in it. “Angel, we’re going to be _la-ate_!”

“I … I know. I’m sorry,” Aziraphale calls back, his voice leading Crowley to the bedroom, “but I don’t think I’m in the mood to go out tonight.”

“But you _chose_ this restaurant! You’ve talked about it all day!” Crowley drops into the bathroom to steal a spritz of Aziraphale’s favorite cologne, then to the bedroom where the angel sits on the edge of the bed, dressed to go out minus his coat and vest, cattycorner to a large, grotesquely-ornate mirror – a recent acquisition from an antique shop gone under, rather unexpected when Crowley saw it wheeled through the door.

Aziraphale collects a great many things, but mirrors aren’t one. Looking at it, it doesn’t seem the kind of thing Aziraphale would own. He’d claimed he liked the _feel_ of it, the golden scroll work along the sides reminding him of Crowley’s favorite chair. Crowley thinks (to himself, because he has no wish to make his angel insecure) that Aziraphale has been trying to add things to Crowley’s flat that are _technically_ his but better belong. Aziraphale has brought plenty of his belongings over – books, blankets, teacups, statuettes and the like, but they get swallowed up in the vastness of the place. The starkness.

And they don’t fit. Against the minimalist décor of Crowley’s flat, Aziraphale’s homely touches stick out like a sore thumb wrapped in a comical bandage, like putting Bugs Bunny stockings on Michelangelo’s _David _(though, to be honest, Crowley thinks Michelangelo would have appreciated the humor).

He catches Aziraphale gaze into it then look away. A second later, his eyes inch to it again, but this time, he tuts his tongue sharply and his gaze falls to his feet.

“You’re certainly getting mileage out of that mirror,” Crowley teases, watching as Aziraphale glances into it a third time just to look away with displeasure. “I didn’t peg you for the vain type.”

It’s a joke to get Aziraphale moving. He assumes that tut of Aziraphale’s tongue was meant for him and the super tight trousers he’s wearing – trousers Aziraphale had objected to when he first saw them, but couldn’t seem to take his eyes off of when Crowley wore them home from Ferragamo.

His joke, however, doesn’t land the way he’d intended.

He sits beside Aziraphale, cozying up, but Aziraphale immediately gets up and walks a short distance away.

“That just proves you don’t know everything about me, do you?”

Crowley’s head jerks, his brow furrowing at the snap in Aziraphale’s remark. “I guess I don’t,” he admits. “Are you all right?”

“Of course I am.” Aziraphale sniffs. “Why do you ask?”

“You have … a _look_.”

“A _look_?” Aziraphale chuckles dryly. “That’s a very scientific assessment. A _look_.” He stands in an opposite corner with his arms crossed over his chest, staring tensely at the wall’s smooth surface. Crowley, on the receiving end of his cold shoulder, looks about, trying to get an idea of what in the world has gotten into his angel, why he’s suddenly become bitter when the night had been going so well.

Crowley doesn’t see anything out of the ordinary. In fact, for the amount of time Aziraphale has spent in here dressing, nothing appears to be touched, as if he miracled his clothes on (which would be considered, by Aziraphale, frivolous, so not something he’s likely to do). He’s about to give up and outright ask him, prepared to interpret around the sarcastic remark he’s likely to get, when a second sweep reveals something so blaring he’s surprised he didn’t see it the first time. Where Aziraphale had been sitting Crowley spots a white envelope with golden angel wings imprinted on it. The seal has been broken so the letter inside must have been read. Crowley doesn’t need to inspect it closer to know who it’s from. He doesn’t intend on reading it either. He doesn’t want to invade his angel’s privacy. But whatever’s going on with Aziraphale, this dramatic shift in his mood, this has to have played a part in it.

_‘Fucking Gabriel!’_ Crowley shakes his head. He debates snapping his fingers and setting the thing ablaze but decides against it. Every time he thinks the guy has ducked out for good, he pops up like a rotten apple and spoils _everything_.

And since _everything_, for the moment, is their dinner plans, that letter has to be some dig about Aziraphale’s weight – maybe an official notice of inspection aimed primarily at assessing his physicality, something Gabriel no longer has the power to enforce where it concerns Aziraphale so it serves as a dig.

_Petty ass Archangel._

Crowley strips off his jacket and lays it carefully aside. Then he toes off his shoes. He reaches out a hand, grabs Aziraphale by the elbow, and pulls the angel toward him. “Come here. Get comfy,” he says, leading Aziraphale gently whilst simultaneously not giving him much choice in the matter.

“What … what are you doing?”

“What are _we_ doing. We’re gonna lie down, you and me, and we’re gonna have a talk.”

“About what?” Aziraphale grimaces as he lowers himself onto the bed, the look on his face a silent commentary on how he feels about the wrinkles that will get embedded in their clothes.

“Why you suddenly don’t feel like going out to dinner.”

“I just don’t. I thought it might be nicer to stay in and read. That’s all. Nothing more complicated than that.”

“A-ha. And this doesn’t have anything to do with that letter with the gold wings on it, does it? I’m guessing you got that, what … about an hour ago?”

“No.” Aziraphale clears his throat of his quick and outright lie. “Not necessarily.”

“Then you won’t mind telling me what it says, right?”

“I’d … rather not.”

“Okay,” Crowley says with a small huff of frustration. “Then let’s talk about this mirror.”

“What about the mirror?”

“You seem to have developed a mild obsession with it.”

“I don’t have an _obsession_ with the mirror.”

“Then why do you keep looking at it, huh? What are you looking for?”

“None of your business.”

“That’s what you _think_, but that’s not the truth. Not by a long shot.”

“And why not?”

“Because I love you,” Crowley says quietly, less confrontationally. “And if something bothers you, then it bothers me – plain and simple.”

“That’s very nice of you, but …”

“But …?”

Aziraphale sinks into the mattress, his eyes subconsciously finding his reflection in the mirror.

He frowns when he does.

“Still don’t wanna talk, huh?” Crowley surmises. “How about this - I’ll tell you what I think, and you tell me if I’m right.”

“I’m not agreeing to anything.”

“You don’t have to. I know you, Aziraphale. I know when something bothers you. Let’s start with something easy. That letter you got today in its crisp white envelope and gold writing is from Gabriel, isn’t it?”

Aziraphale rolls his eyes. _Simple indeed_. “Yours is definitely a dizzying intellect.”

“And on account of the way you’re acting …”

Aziraphale gasps. “How am I acting?”

Crowley’s left eyebrow arches to the Heavens. “Honestly?”

“Yes.”

“Bitchy.”

“_Flatterer_.”

“Like I was saying – on account of the way you’re acting, I’d have to say that it has something to do with your fitness for duty … or lack thereof. Am I right?”

A beat of silence – painful silence. “Don’t ask me. I haven’t agreed to anything,” Aziraphale says softly.

“Of course you haven’t,” Crowley grits through locked teeth. “Let’s try this then – since you seem to like looking in that mirror so much, I want you to look in it. You look in it, and I’m going to tell you a few things it doesn’t show.”

“It’s a _mirror_, Crowley. It shows me everything. That’s its sole purpose - blunt and unapologetic realism.”

“Maybe. But that doesn’t mean it shows the important stuff.”

“And what is _the important stuff_?”

“How smart you are,” Crowley whispers, creeping up behind his right ear with a subtle kiss. “How clever. How kind. And you know what they say about people who are beautiful on the inside.”

Aziraphale sighs, done with this quiz show. “What’s that?”

“It makes them beautiful on the outside. And you, my love, are that and more.”

“You’re just saying that.”

_“You’re just saying that …”_ Crowley mimics, “I don’t have to _just say_ anything.” But his tone shifts in the blink of an eye when he says, “Take off your shirt, Aziraphale.”

Aziraphale shoots a glare over his shoulder at the demon looming above him, head propped one hand. “D-didn’t you say we were late for our reservation?”

“Yeah, but I think I like your idea better - staying in for the night. I think this is more important. If we get hungry, we can order take away. From the same restaurant, I gather.” Crowley’s arms encircle him, slipping over and underneath him, his hands unbuttoning his shirt. Aziraphale peers into the mirror as Crowley peels the shirt over his shoulders and down his arms, exposing his chest and his stomach. “Look at yourself, Aziraphale. Take a good, hard look, and try to see the wonderful things I see, hmm?” Crowley kisses the back of his neck, runs black painted nails down his skin, hugs and caresses. Aziraphale watches, his blue eyes roaming his own half-dressed body, trying to find something, _anything_ that he loves about the view. But lying on his side at this angle causes the slack skin of his stomach to settle on the mattress, making it appear awkwardly shaped, like a rotting, sagging pumpkin, twice the size of normal.

He shouldn’t focus on that. That shouldn’t bother him. His body is just a vessel, and he never used to have anything against this one. Besides, Crowley seems to like it. Love it, even. He definitely enjoys it. Shouldn’t that be enough for Aziraphale? All he’s ever wanted for this human form was someone who could appreciate it. And Crowley, the entity he loves, appreciates it.

God, does he appreciate it.

He spends long nights appreciating it.

But with a heavy heart and a shuddering chest, Aziraphale discovers no. It’s not enough. He wishes it were because then he’d disrobe with reckless abandon and indulge in the gorgeous demon licking hearts into his shoulder, mirror or no.

Or _yes_ mirror! He would ask Crowley to make love to him from behind and watch the two of them, revel in the flush that rises in his skin, the areas that tighten the closer he comes to completion, the expression on his face, whether it’s sexy or silly or incandescent. The glow of his aura, the shadows it throws across the planes and valleys of his body, the contrast of Crowley’s body against his.

Then he’d beg Crowley to do it again. And Crowley would. Happily. As many times as Aziraphale wants, in every position Aziraphale could think to ask for.

Because Crowley loves him. He loves the angel Aziraphale. And second to that, Crowley loves his body.

Aziraphale wants to love his body, too.

But he doesn’t.

And no one, not even Crowley, can make him.

“I wish I could, but I ... I can’t,” Aziraphale whispers, a tear slipping down his cheek as he presses his eyelids shut. “I’m sorry … but I …”

“That’s all right, angel. It’s all right.” Crowley stops for the moment to unbutton his own shirt, pressing his chest against his angel’s bare back so he can feel him close. “You don’t have to look if you don’t want to. I’ll tell you all the wonderful things about you that you don’t see.” He wraps his arms around him and plants a kiss on his head. Then another. Then another. “I’ll be your mirror. It would be my honor.”


End file.
